Under deep hay in the insulated pumphouse in my big barn back home is a treasure of sweet potatoes that I grew last year. They are massive, well coloured and delicious and have been growing in the valley for over 30 years. This is how I found them:
I stopped for smokes at a small store in a town down the valley last spring and an aged man with big dirty hands and a cheeky grin was hanging out the front. He looked me up and down and asked me "do you want to see my peanuts". The word was incongruous and I wasn't sure I heard him right, so I excused myself to hear again that indeed it was "peanuts" he wanted to show me (the "T" was obscured in his valley accent) I wavered a moment and then agreed, because he was ancient I guess, and off we went behind the store to a series of small sheds. He insisted I come in, as there was a double door and he didn't want his "peanuts" to get cold. His cheeky grin became diabolical. It was then I noticed the sweet potato slips in pots under lights through a grimy window and I went in with him. Hundreds of peanuts green and a smaller number of sweet potato slips. He has been growing peanuts in the Annapolis Valley for over 70 years, having started them in a school science project and planting them thereafter faithfully every year. The sweet potatoes he had started from tubers he found at a store 30 years ago and it was these massive beauties that interested me. I left laden with a dozen slips. I hope he is still around, because for sure I will be going to see his peanuts this spring. And if the mice or rot have got my sweet spuds lets hope his dirty hands and cheeky grin are still preserving something special indeed.
Showing posts with label stories farmers tell.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories farmers tell.. Show all posts
January 22, 2011
July 3, 2010
a good market...
I love a good market. The crowd is full on and happy, the sun is shining and the plump lush piles of vegetables disappear in record time. After the rush I set back up quickly, in those sweet slower intervals, when conversation is possible. Until its inundation again: the pyramid of bagged peas and fluffy basil, the romaine towers, the glistening organized carrots...everything attacked lovingly and whisked away leaving a tablecloth to cover in bounty again. Then that last lonely dill bunch or radicchio hit the road and the wallet is plump. Tuck away the cash box, tidy up all the empty lugs, and go visit with happy people.
June 11, 2010
remay tales
I had a tragic comedy here last night on the farm involving remay, or agricultural fabric...for non-gardeners that is a lightweight woven fabric that covers crop to prevent insect from landing and feasting or spreading disease and is an organic farmer's standby for salad greens and other sensitive things (carrots if rust fly is troublesome, for eg). It also speeds growth.
The remay on my old farm came in the long roll of 500 feet and we had these length of beds. One day coming home from market I witnessed a small wind tunnel that had grabbed an end and sucked it high (100 feet) into the air. I had a good view on the road above the valley where the fields lay as the tractor with loader full of rocks raced to the scene and helpers jumped and ran and tugged to get the long white sheet out of the wee tornado and constrained from whipping out the wee seedings.
Wind plays havoc here too, but have yet to see a tornado (just hurricane remnants), and yesterday's show was just my own damn fault: I was in hurry, it was late and I hungry and little Buddy was barking at the birds down in the creek - poised for trouble. It was time for dinner and the evening dog excursion...but I had one last task to do and I was rushing. I had weeded all day and the last task task was to till up the old salad and spinach beds to free up some space to plant. The garden is getting tight now for the tractor, so I eased into position, let down the tiller and set the pto in gear. I was focused on steering my old rig clear of the dill and beets in the beds on either side of the wheels, but I misjudged where the tiller dropped - I caught the remay end of the adjacent bed. I didn't notice for a good 20 feet. It had yanked the fabric off the turnips, lifting the little roots with it and rolled up neat on the shaft of the tiller. Amazing it rolled up clean and even and only tore where the tines ripped it the first few turns.
The turnips (Hakurai japanese salad)were ready to pick and were surprisingly undamaged. Buddy had to wait whilst I cussed and laughed and unrolled remay from the tiller (and then dealt with the turnips). On retrospect designing a tool that winds up a roll could be inspired here. Ditto with harvesting.
The remay on my old farm came in the long roll of 500 feet and we had these length of beds. One day coming home from market I witnessed a small wind tunnel that had grabbed an end and sucked it high (100 feet) into the air. I had a good view on the road above the valley where the fields lay as the tractor with loader full of rocks raced to the scene and helpers jumped and ran and tugged to get the long white sheet out of the wee tornado and constrained from whipping out the wee seedings.
Wind plays havoc here too, but have yet to see a tornado (just hurricane remnants), and yesterday's show was just my own damn fault: I was in hurry, it was late and I hungry and little Buddy was barking at the birds down in the creek - poised for trouble. It was time for dinner and the evening dog excursion...but I had one last task to do and I was rushing. I had weeded all day and the last task task was to till up the old salad and spinach beds to free up some space to plant. The garden is getting tight now for the tractor, so I eased into position, let down the tiller and set the pto in gear. I was focused on steering my old rig clear of the dill and beets in the beds on either side of the wheels, but I misjudged where the tiller dropped - I caught the remay end of the adjacent bed. I didn't notice for a good 20 feet. It had yanked the fabric off the turnips, lifting the little roots with it and rolled up neat on the shaft of the tiller. Amazing it rolled up clean and even and only tore where the tines ripped it the first few turns.
The turnips (Hakurai japanese salad)were ready to pick and were surprisingly undamaged. Buddy had to wait whilst I cussed and laughed and unrolled remay from the tiller (and then dealt with the turnips). On retrospect designing a tool that winds up a roll could be inspired here. Ditto with harvesting.
June 28, 2009
saskatchewan settlement experience
I happened upon this wonderful website with some great photographs of the Saskachewan Settlement Experience.
There are even some silent movies.
March 7, 2009
Pullet Surprise
A post from yesterday inspired me to record a few found stories I've collected that get passed around to farmers. This one, whose authorship is now a mystery, came into my box via the Certified Organic Association of British Columbia's (COABC)Listserve. If anyone knows the source of this, let me know and I'll attribute it (to I expect) the clever farmer.
John was in the fertilized egg business. He had several hundred young layers (hens), called 'pullets', and ten roosters to fertilize the egg. He kept records, and any rooster not performing went into the soup pot and was replaced. This took a lot of time, so he bought some tiny bells and attached them to his roosters.
Each bell had a different tone, so he could tell from a distance, which rooster was performing. Now, he could sit on the porch and fill out an efficiency report by just listening to the bells.
John's favorite rooster, old Butch, was a very fine specimen, but this morning he noticed old Butch's bell hadn't rung at all! When he went to investigate he saw the other roosters were busy chasing pullets, bells-a-ringing, but the pullets, hearing the roosters coming, could run for cover. To John's amazement, old Butch had his bell in his beak, so it couldn't ring. He'd sneak up on a pullet, do his job and walk on to the next one.
John was so proud of old Butch, he entered him in the County Fair and he became an overnight sensation among the judges. The result was the judges not only awarded old Butch the No Bell Piece Prize but they also awarded him the Pulletsurprise as well.
John was in the fertilized egg business. He had several hundred young layers (hens), called 'pullets', and ten roosters to fertilize the egg. He kept records, and any rooster not performing went into the soup pot and was replaced. This took a lot of time, so he bought some tiny bells and attached them to his roosters.
Each bell had a different tone, so he could tell from a distance, which rooster was performing. Now, he could sit on the porch and fill out an efficiency report by just listening to the bells.
John's favorite rooster, old Butch, was a very fine specimen, but this morning he noticed old Butch's bell hadn't rung at all! When he went to investigate he saw the other roosters were busy chasing pullets, bells-a-ringing, but the pullets, hearing the roosters coming, could run for cover. To John's amazement, old Butch had his bell in his beak, so it couldn't ring. He'd sneak up on a pullet, do his job and walk on to the next one.
John was so proud of old Butch, he entered him in the County Fair and he became an overnight sensation among the judges. The result was the judges not only awarded old Butch the No Bell Piece Prize but they also awarded him the Pulletsurprise as well.
March 6, 2009
3 year's old wisdom
I was repairing my manure wagon yesterday and it reminded me of something my friend's 3 year old told me years ago:
He was on his knees in the dust in the farmyard, flaying his arms every which way and pounding the ground while swearing a very blue streak....=:^x#bxx # @ !!** (xh5!cu** di"**! whack whack...swear... whack.
When I asked him what it was he was doing, he looked up in bright eyed earnestness and replied,
"fixing stuff"!
*******
I had to come back to this post; there is much more to say about the wisdom of three year olds. This boy knew too the sweet pleasures of a job well done and had opportunities to watch more graceful, dedicated well equipped people work; solve the problems incumbent on repairing a well loved machine. Or the boots who carry you the day through.
Frustration or despair set in from time to time, I'll admit that. The causes of that are few: not enough people, and/or skilled people, and/or money to set up with dignity/ efficiency. So knuckles get bashed. And disks pushed to ulcerate and not enough sleep. The edges get frazzled.
Dignity and humiliation. These are the things a three year old knows.
I like to go back there sometimes. know those first vulnerabilities; remember that unshakable forgiveness. Be like that lion that gets up, shakes it off and is on to life completely again.
Dignity can be regained. Let longing come and go. That is ok.
I can get the job done gently, the best I can ... be slower and smaller.
There may be a day this old house will be filled with happy, skillful people whose repertoire of wisdoms include that of a 3 year old's.
Now of course I'm reminded of all my farming friends; some that I haven't seen for a very long time; and I remember these stories that farmers like to tell. So watch out for a new theme on the sidebar!
He was on his knees in the dust in the farmyard, flaying his arms every which way and pounding the ground while swearing a very blue streak....=:^x#bxx # @ !!** (xh5!cu** di"**! whack whack...swear... whack.
When I asked him what it was he was doing, he looked up in bright eyed earnestness and replied,
"fixing stuff"!
*******
I had to come back to this post; there is much more to say about the wisdom of three year olds. This boy knew too the sweet pleasures of a job well done and had opportunities to watch more graceful, dedicated well equipped people work; solve the problems incumbent on repairing a well loved machine. Or the boots who carry you the day through.
Frustration or despair set in from time to time, I'll admit that. The causes of that are few: not enough people, and/or skilled people, and/or money to set up with dignity/ efficiency. So knuckles get bashed. And disks pushed to ulcerate and not enough sleep. The edges get frazzled.
Dignity and humiliation. These are the things a three year old knows.
I like to go back there sometimes. know those first vulnerabilities; remember that unshakable forgiveness. Be like that lion that gets up, shakes it off and is on to life completely again.
Dignity can be regained. Let longing come and go. That is ok.
I can get the job done gently, the best I can ... be slower and smaller.
There may be a day this old house will be filled with happy, skillful people whose repertoire of wisdoms include that of a 3 year old's.
Now of course I'm reminded of all my farming friends; some that I haven't seen for a very long time; and I remember these stories that farmers like to tell. So watch out for a new theme on the sidebar!
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